Ripper

Ripper

Andy Slater stopped in his tracks, staring down at the pool of crimson on the A-train’s cold, black floor. The railcar doors closed behind him, and the rising pitch of electric motors filled the carriage as the train pulled out of the station.

         He’d never seen a dead man up close, let alone smelled one, and the foul waft of blood and feces made his nose wrinkle. Something thorny and cold raced up his spine as he stared at the murdered businessman. The lone man’s throat was slashed, empty eyes gazing blankly, empty wallet on the light blue seat next to him.

         Blood everywhere.

         A robbery gone wrong.

         Or right.

         I’ve gotta get out of here. He stumbled toward the adjoining railcar doors on unsteady legs and pressed the door button as the guilt gripped him.

         He’d call 911 from the next carriage.
         
         Anonymously.

         After all, this was New York near midnight and none of his doing.

         The vestibule doors closed behind him and a shrill scream filled the carriage. Two thugs in black hoodies stood over a seated woman. One had a grip on her handbag, but she wouldn’t let it go. Crimson trickled from her nose and colored her white blouse. The other guy menaced her with a black knife.

         Bastards . . . thieving, murdering bastards. Andy dropped his right shoulder and sprinted toward them, delivering the cleanest blindside tackle since his playing days at Penn State. They all went down in a tangle of arms and legs. The knife clattered to the floor. The nearest guy was out of the fight. The other was on hands and knees, crawling for the knife.

         The hood stood up and smiled, knife in hand. Andy stood up and trembled. The woman clutched her handbag to her chest and sat there bleeding.

         The knifeman stepped over his buddy, tossing the knife from hand to hand expertly, and faced Andy.

         “This blade will solve our little problem,” the hood said and got down into a crouch. “A flash of steel, a splash of red, problem solved.”

         And he smiled again.

         He’s done this before. I’m so dead. Andy had never been in a knife-fight. The urge to run was overwhelming but there wasn’t time. The thug would be on him before he could take a step. The few passengers in the railcar looked away, one guy holding up his phone. After all, this was New York.

         They circled each other in the confined space. The rail-ties clattered rhythmically. The knifeman feigned a straight thrust. Andy grabbed at the guy’s wrist. A searing sting ripped up his left forearm.

         The hood smiled again and leapt forward slashing downward diagonally. Andy was backpedaling and the blade sliced the shirt across his chest, but this time his fingers locked onto the wrist with the knife. The thug punched Andy in the mouth with his free hand, a stunning blow, but Andy held on and used his weight advantage to ram the guy backward into the closed railcar doors.

         They were chest-to-chest, and Andy now grabbed the hood’s wrist with both hands and twisted, reversing the knife toward the guy’s throat.

         The hood’s cry turned to a gurgle as the sharp blade sunk to the hilt in his esophagus. Andy stepped back and watched the guy slide to the floor and die twitching. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t quick. It was somehow fitting and surreal.

         He’d just killed a man.

         The train slowed to a stop. The doors opened. Andy shivered, hands trembling. He tasted blood in his mouth. Blood dripped from his left hand and his shirt felt warm and wet across his chest.

         Lucky.

         The woman appeared beside him.

         “This is my stop,” she said and grabbed his upper arm. “We have to get out of here.”

#​

Her modest one room apartment was on Saint Nicholas Avenue: a seven-minute walk from the 181st Street Station, and Andy was lightheaded by the time they got indoors. The dwelling was sparsely, but stylishly, furnished. A sofa and coffee table faced a flat screen on the wall.

         The woman was athletic and attractive, fetching a towel for Andy. She dumped her handbag on the coffee table, turned the TV on, stuck out her hand and said, “My name’s Bonita.”

         “Andy,” he replied and shook her hand, surprised by her firm, warm grip.

         “Mi casa, tu casa.” She motioned at the sofa.

         Andy sat down. “Thanks.”

         “I’ll get cleaned up,” she said with a smile and headed for the bathroom. “Then I’ll take care of you.”

         Andy looked up at the TV. The news ticker rolled across the bottom of the screen: ‘A-Train Ripper kills again . . .’

         A striking woman appeared. The ticker read: ‘NBC New York. Erica Byfield. Live from Manhattan . . .’

         Andy turned the volume up.

         She said, “A fifty-three-year-old businessman became victim number seven in the A-Train Ripper’s brutal killing spree, and this vigilante is wanted by the police for murder, on the same train, about midnight last night.”

         Then he saw himself on the screen.

         Ahh, the guy holding up his phone. Filmed the whole thing instead of helping. Great morals.

         He turned the television off and considered his own morality. Was it fake? Was it artificial? After all, the commandment said: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’

         End of story.

         It didn’t say: ‘You shall not kill anyone, but serial killers are excluded.’

         And he had killed.

         Ironic . . .  If only I’d done the right thing. Dialed 911. If only I’d stayed with the businessman.

         If only.

         And what about Bonita? All she had to do was surrender her handbag. What could possibly be in there that was worth dying for?

         It doesn’t make sense.

         Andy grimaced. His arm ached more than his chest, as he leaned forward and unzipped the handbag. Right on top was a plastic shopping bag. Andy looked at the contents: a bloodied knife, gloves, a wad of cash, a bunch of cards . . .

         And there it was.

         The murdered businessman’s driver's license.